Such Was This As It Should Be
by karlalujah
Summary: Loosely based on canon, House and Cuddy meet at a Laundromat after their previous encounter at the UMich bookstore.
1. It Was Not Conquest

**Title: **Such Was This (As It Should Be)  
**Pairing: **College!House/Cuddy  
**Rating: **PG  
**Synopsis: **Loosely based on canon, House and Cuddy meet at a Laundromat after their initial encounter at the campus bookstore.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters are not mine.

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**Part I: It Was Not Conquest**

Summer afternoons are simply preludes for Things to Come and Things That Will Be. Days are longer. School's out or rather, school rests from force and punishment, from teaching and transactions. The cold is nowhere to be found. The heat is palpable. The sky seems unusually bluer and brighter somehow.

That is because summer is not real. It is desire unbridled and daydream sought. That is why summer is the season for lovers and children. Flings and campfires are short-lived, like summer, which never lasts. Once it begins, it has the propensity to end quickly without any warning.

Yet summer is also transition. Things will come and things will be.

Greg House spent his entire summer on campus to look for a decent apartment he could possibly rent for his entire stay at Michigan. The apartment was clean enough with reasonable rent and more importantly, without the presence of a roommate. He spent a lot of time surveying the area for the quickest routes and the best places for chicken, booze, and late nights. He even got a job at the campus bookshop, secretly grateful for the weekly pay. Which was great, mind you, considering how little he actually did as a clerk.

He was getting ready for a night out at the nearest blues club when he decided that it was high time for him to do his laundry. It was a balmy summer afternoon, great for walks around the quad and scoffing at freshmen. They were usually clueless and accompanied by doting parents. Technically, he was a freshman himself for med school, but chose to ignore that detail.

He settled for walking to the Laundromat blocks away from his apartment. His clothes were inside the hamper and he had his change ready. Two months ago, he befriended Ray, the greasy-haired clerk at the Laundromat. Judging by his appearance, Ray would probably his go-to guy for some pot and a guaranteed spot from the rows of old washing machines and dryers.

The bell at the glass door rang shrilly as he entered.

"Nice to see you again, Greg." Ray was reading something that looked like a cheap romance novel and had his legs propped up on the counter. Greg found himself a bit taken aback at the sight of the Laundromat clerk reading a book. Or just reading in general. As always, Ray had his vomit-yellow uniform on and a trucker cap, which oddly enough, matched the interiors of the Laundromat.

Greg nodded at Ray in greeting. The ceiling fans buzzed and the lights hummed inside the store. They would be witnesses at what was about to happen. Things will come and things will be.

Greg took a few steps around the store, checking to see if there was an available washing machine for him to use. He sighed in frustration when he found none, as he should have expected. Of course. Afternoons brought in the most customers.

"Hey, Ray!" He yelled at the counter. Ray was still engrossed with his book. "Everything's taken? Some poker buddy you are."

"C'mon, Greg. Whaddya expect me to do? I can't wait for you to—"

"Yeah, but you have to have a system." Could he help it if he whined like a ten year-old? This was simply inconvenient for him. "You know I always come here during the weekends. Afternoons. Preferably from 3 to 5." He carried his clothes hamper and unceremoniously dropped it on the counter.

"I'll be at _Mickey's_ at 7:30. I need you to wash these for me." He got his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and checked how much cash he had. Maybe seven dollars would do. And chicken chops along with a chocolate milkshake. God, could he use that meal right now.

"Hey, hey, hey! You wash your stuff yourself, got it?" Ray didn't take any shit from anyone. Except maybe from pretty undergrads. Or some pot. Whatever works. Still, Ray had some principles. "It's called self-service. I ain't takin' no money from you, Greg. Only in poker."

Greg rolled his eyes and placed his wallet back in his pocket. Tough. This was going to be tough. "The next time we play, I definitely won't fake it. You have the most obvious tells anyway: you sit up straight, you bite your lip—"

Ray was unfazed. "Don't care, don't have time. Just wait like every normal person does, Greg." Ray got back to _Lovers in the Garden of Olenska_ and turned the radio's volume up. Countess Sonja and the gardener were really getting it on, he thought.

"Fine. If you're going to be that way." He took his clothes hamper off the counter and started walking to Aisle 1. He hated Aisles 2 and 3 because of the malfunctioning washing machines and dryers. Aisle 1 machines were comparatively new and gave him some privacy.

With his arms wrapped around his hamper, he surveyed Aisle 1 and spotted An Opening. Near the end of the line of machines were two clothes hampers, one full and one empty. He could only surmise that at least one washing machine was ready for use, unspoken Laundromat rules be damned. He placed his lot beside what looked like female garb and examined the washing machines facing him. One was definitely running and the other was… Not. He grinned impishly, gears turning in his head.

Really, the only solution would be taking some of the girl's clothes off the washing machine. And that was precisely what he did. He found himself throwing tank tops, shirts, and blouses-both colored and white, _oh dear Lord_. He finally got to the fun part: lingerie. Bras of every color and shape imaginable were in his hands. _C cups or D cups?_ Panties were also in abundance. Thank _god_ for these thongs and boy shorts. Now, he actually looked forward to meeting the owner.

"Hey!" Someone yelled. He found out that when you thought of the devil, the _devil doth appear_. The devil turned out to be a brunette with a great rack and great legs. And she was clearly furious at him. "Hey! Those are _my_ clothes!" She walked briskly at his direction and seized a handful of shirts and tank tops from him.

She was now in front of him, hands on her hips (which she was capable of, despite the clothes she held in her grip) and chin tilted upward. She was wearing a loose shirt that said, 'I Slept With Campbell' and a pair of denim shorts that showed off her tanned legs. _Huh_, he thought. _Bio undergrad?_

"I said," she folded her arms and got his attention. "those are my clothes you're taking out of the machine."

And that was when he really got a good look on her. And she was gorgeous. Her hair was up in a ponytail and her cheeks were flushed in a color between pink and a bright red. He was a bit shocked that he had never even seen her around campus before.

"The washing machine's not even on. And you have one already running." He moved closer to 'Campbell' and invaded her personal space. He was undoubtedly emphasizing the height difference between the two of them—which was a lot. "Learn to share."

But she didn't back down.

"I left my clothes inside for a reason. I just got back from the 7 Eleven to get some change," she pointed out as reasonably as she can. So much for a relaxing Sunday afternoon.

"Then you should've thought of that first before leaving." He threw one of his shirts inside the washing machine and looked at her again. He smirked. "I win."

To his surprise, 'Campbell' suddenly tossed the clothes she had in her hand inside the machine along with his own. At first, he was caught off guard by the trajectory of her shots until he realized what the implications of her actions would be to his _clothes_. She still didn't separate the whites from the coloreds, which would be unfortunate for him.

"Stop that!" He moved to block the pile of clothes she was flinging into the wash and was hit a couple of times with ladies' underwear and an assortment of tops. "Hey! I said stop it!"

She didn't stop. "Well, you're not polite enough or considerate enough to give way. So I simply decided to compromise," she told him glibly. He didn't know if he was supposed to be turned on or irritated at her. Clearly, that was a problem. For him, that is. "Ladies first, right? But that's okay. We can both handle it." She smiled sweetly at him, content with herself and the predicament she put them both through.

He couldn't help but answer back. "Okay," he was cautious, calculating. "Get your coloreds out of the wash, then, _Sweet Cheeks._" A beat? Probably. The whole world could never keep up.

"If you're really used to doing your own laundry, why don't you do it yourself, _Stud Muffin_?" She gracefully sat down on top of a dryer behind her, loath to give in or give up. If he just didn't have to go to Mickey's later, he would gladly do this the whole afternoon with her. 'Campbell'. So it was Greg House that gave in but who didn't give up, eager to please so he could at least know what her name was.

It would have probably been a standoff. It probably was. And both were oblivious that it would always be that way with them, no matter what the limits of space and time were. Naturally.

The ceiling fans continued to buzz and the lights never stopped humming inside a Laundromat one Sunday afternoon. It was summer then.


	2. Nettles

**Part II: Nettles**

Supposing time produced echoes and reverberations, life should be less unpredictable and more controllable. Supposing time produced echoes and reverberations, would an event have a tendency to repeat itself? Will another be a phantom of what it once was? Life is a cycle; it was something beyond mere dialectics. Some people certainly believed in the veracity of those ideas.

But not Lisa Cuddy.

Lisa Cuddy certainly did not think that life could be as _simple as that_. To think that life would be reduced to something so malleable and understandable; that was just impossible. She would like to think of life as a struggle. You had to take it by its horns, but you could never try to tame it. She also believed that life was linear. And so, there would always be An End. Mobility was possible and so was change, and therefore, so was success.

She was a creature of goals and expectations. She was also a creature of purpose. Lisa Cuddy would like to believe that she would always get whatever it is that she wanted. Maybe that was the reason why _he_ told her that she had a chip on her shoulder. She certainly remembered _him_, the guy from the bookstore. He sized her up so quickly that day that she didn't even have time to react. It wasn't just humiliation that she had experienced. To be exposed—to be defenseless as she was at that particular instant was unsettling.

Ever since _that _incident, she had been resolute that she was going to track him down. She didn't think she was being a masochist. He only piqued her interest. And really, she was not a stalker. She just wanted to know who he was and what he was majoring in. And quite possibly, the classes he would be taking. And where he lived on campus (that surely was evident now). If he was as brilliant as he was arrogant.

And now he was here. With her. Teaching her how to properly wash her clothes.

_Tch._ She heard a click of the tongue. "You clearly don't know how to do your laundry. Everybody knows that whites and coloreds should be done separately. Wait. That didn't sound right." To his dismay, she just ignored him.

"You know, you really should take care of these babies," he delicately lifted a brassiere from its straps and held it up for inspection. Lisa felt her cheeks flush. It was one of her best ones. "I mean, seriously. You don't want them to get ruined. Wash these," he pointed to her undergarments, "by hand. They'll be all floppy and useless if they get washed and dried. Huh. That sounded like fruit. Let me rephrase that. If they get machine-washed then tumble-dried. You get where I'm going with this?"

"Funny that I'm getting some advice from a guy who looks like he hasn't even taken a shower in two days." He looked clean enough and handsome enough, but she would never admit it to him out loud. He was a bit on the lanky side, though. The disheveled look certainly suited him, and he had the bluesteyes. That genetic mutation looked _so good_ on him.

"Washing my clothes and washing myself are two completely different things. Speaking of washing myself, I know how you can put those hands into practice—"

"And here I was, thinking that there was going to be some sort of lecture on how to get my undergarments clean," she quipped. She was inspecting which dryers to use before she even started, or he did, for that matter. She would always be looking ahead, preparing herself for what was to come. "I knew you'd tell a dirty joke sooner or later."

"I could go all day—if you know what I mean." He winked for emphasis just as she turned around to face him. He leaned back on the washing machine and tucked his hands inside the pockets of his well-worn jeans. "How old are you anyway?"

She was caught off guard by his question. She didn't get the logic of his train of thought. Was he propositioning her? Did she look that young? More importantly, did she look _inexperienced_? It was odd that she was already thinking of sex. "Old enough," she remarked, playing it coolly and casually. If he only knew. Old enough? She could've scoffed. She was definitely old enough to sleep with her father's best friend. She felt her stomach churn.

"I just don't want to be charged with statutory rape for—"

_Rape_. _Statutory rape_. He didn't know it (as she'd like to think so), but he hit a nerve. "What makes you think that I'll sleep with you?" she asked him, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. She took a deep breath and calmed herself down. Still, she thought, it was a mutual decision between two consenting _adults_.

"Well, you slept with Campbell, as your shirt says. And since I've had my fingers in your underwear already…" he trailed off. She genuinely chuckled at his remark, relieved that his wry humor was driving away the waves of acid from her viscera. She knew that she needed to relax. "By the way, great biology reference. I slept with Campbell too, you know. He's such a whore." She realized that he was probably in med school. Was she supposed to be impressed?

"Don't tell me," she played along, "He slept with your entire class."

"Ha. That was good." He gave her a smirk of approval. "For an undergrad. Let me guess: you're a Bio major"

"Huh. Thanks. And I'm a Biochem major." It was her turn to confirm her suspicions. "For someone who's going to be a doctor, you don't seem to have a stick up your ass." On that note, she lifted herself up to take a seat on top of a dryer once again.

He laughed again. "And you're pre-med, which means you'll have one up yours. If you don't already have one there yet." That earned him a glare, but he didn't mind. "You know, most of the tags on your clothes have labels on them, _Lisa Cuddy._"

She knew that she probably looked flustered. She pursed her lips and clutched at the edge of the dryer. "Don't worry. I just noticed when you were making me do the rest of your laundry. I think that it's very _anal _of you."

"Believe me. It wasn't my choice." And it definitely was not. It was her mother's.

Lisa Cuddy was prepared to kill her mother that very second. She thought of impaling her, but she opted not to go through with it. After all, her father (whom she loved) was quite fond of her mother (whom she at least respected). She didn't want to hurt his feelings for her own sake. But her mother, for some strange reason, worried about her losing her clothes that she insisted on labeling her tops and bottoms with a permanent marker. Frankly, she wouldn't have been surprised if her school address and her permanent one would be written along with her name. Her mother worried so much about her clothes that she even gave Lisa laundry allowance to get her clothing professionally washed, pressed, and folded. But she didn't bother. Not that her mother needed to know that.

It was a good thing he changed the subject quickly. She hoped that her clothes-labeling and her powerlessness in the matter didn't diminish Bookstore Guy's image of her being Old Enough. "You just gonna sit on top of a dryer all afternoon and refuse to help me with _your_ laundry?" he stretched, beginning to feel antsy.

"I appreciate your skills in pedagogy. I'm sure I'll be able to do my laundry myself the next time I come here."

"You sure? 'Cause I'm hungry and I'm thirsty. Of course, you'll be paying. You know…Labor and all." He was thinking of a hot dog, some Cheetos, and a milk shake or a grape soda. And some gum, in case he'd be compelled to kiss her.

"Fine. You'll get your precious wages from me." She never would have thought of her statement as prophetic. Still, the world had it all figured out. And time would be proof of that through the echoes and reverberations. Things will come and things will be.

The ceiling fans buzzed and the lights hummed in the Laundromat as they left. The nearest snack establishment would be the 7 Eleven Lisa Cuddy entered an hour ago, exchanging her dollars for coins. An hour later, she was going back there with someone whose name she didn't even know.

"Lisa Cuddy, aren't you even going to ask me what my name is?"

"Aren't you ever going to stop calling me 'Lisa Cuddy'?"

"Sure. Now ask me what my name is."

She looked at him curiously for a moment before saying anything. "Never."

It was then that a young Gregory House knew that he might have found the perfect girl for himself.


	3. The Mark of Cain

_Thank you for your great reviews. This is my first fic and I think I might write more. This really has been fun._

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**Part III: The Mark of Cain**

The mind was a sieve to them. It separated the important from the unnecessary, like scent, color, or texture. Or the way she said this or how he looked at her. Or how she laughed and how it was because of him. Or being in that very moment when they were the only two people present in their consciousness. Memory and reality melded into one, making sensory experience truth and little details clues. It was not love or lust at first sight; it was more like an imprint branded on the skin. It was like the mark of Cain, recognizable to them and only to them. But instead of blood and sin, brother against brother, their marks were those of man and woman.

And what of time? Was time an important detail? It didn't matter what the calendar said or what the clock pointed out. Time was irrelevant because it made everything end. It was what they ignored but it was that which could change everything. So they tried to prolong time even if was impossible.

They ate slowly and walked slowly, pretending that summer would be forever. It didn't matter what they talked about. If there was silence, it was a means for retreat and stolen glances. Their excuse for being together was never forgotten, though. Of course, their laundry had to be taken out of the wash. They couldn't stay at the Laundromat until closing time.

"You probably shouldn't sit on a dryer," he observed. Greg House was grateful for his proximity to Lisa Cuddy, all curves and soft skin. He was perched on a dryer beside her, eating his second popsicle (it was chocolate this time), his right hand inches away from her left thigh.

"Why is that? You're such a paradox." She was still on her first popsicle, the kind that looked like the flag of France.

"I'm not. It's just that your big ass is making the dryer cry in pain."

"Oh, very funny," she gave him an irritated look, "It's not as if I was the one who ate—let's see: two bags of potato chips, a ham and egg sandwich, a ham and cheese sandwich, Cheetos, gummy bears—"

"I fed you gummy bears!" He was simply astonished.

"You threw them in my face," she said flatly, pointing her popsicle at him like an accusation.

"That's because you didn't _catch_ them." He thought it a shame, really.

"That's because I was eating my sandwich. And you still ate them even if they were already on the table." She groaned and she grimaced, trying not to think of the stained tables in the 7 Eleven they had just gone to.

"I am impervious to diseases," he said dismissively.

"Probably. I was wondering why you ate so much junk food," she told him thoughtfully.

"Well, I was the one who put all of our clothes in the dryers," he patted the machine.

"Which I also paid for. Like all of our food."

"It's not as if you _can't_ pay for them, Lisa Cuddy."

That earned him a look. He grinned at her instead and then finished his chocolate popsicle.

"You gonna finish yours?" he asked her hopefully. It wasn't as if he was still hungry. He just didn't think he could kiss her; not today. Better to eat food that spent minutes in her mouth, he thought.

She was nearly finished with her popsicle. "_This is mine._" She enunciated these words slowly, menacingly.

"Okay, okay, okay." He backed away just a little bit, learning never to put asunder a woman and her ice cream. "Sheesh. It wasn't like I was going to take it away from you."

"Well, after all the money you were mooching off of me today—"

"Like I said, it's not as if you couldn't pay for my food and my laundry."

"Don't think I'll do it any time soon."

"Don't worry, Shylock. I'll pay you back every single penny."

"Shylock? I'd never ask for a pound of flesh." But she will take a pound of flesh from him. Not as payment. It was not a debt nor was it a promise. Of these things, they would have to find out. But this was before all of that.

"I don't think you'd like to be called Miserly Old Jew. Finish your popsicle, Lisa Cuddy." And she followed him. Suddenly, the whirring of the dryer stopped. It was an ominous sign that things will come to pass. Greg was now ambivalent. Because of _her_, of _Lisa Cuddy_, he didn't want to spend an evening in Mickey's all by himself. The booze didn't matter, nor did the blues. He feared wanting her like this. And she feared her own recklessness.

So they moved languidly, putting their now clean clothes back to their own hampers, touching each other inadvertently. It was a brush of an arm, the back of the hand, a palm. It made them jump like they were being burned with fire. It wasn't really far from the truth.

And as the ceiling fans buzzed and the lights hummed inside the Laundromat; as Ray started reading a new Harlequin romance novel (a sci-fi offering, entitled _The Starflower of Andromeda and the Sands of My Love_), a Bob Dylan song began playing on the radio.

"It's almost like a scene from a movie."

"Huh?" Greg was faux-folding his clothes, really. He always folded them at his apartment. He just saw that Lisa wasn't quite done loading her own things on her hamper.

"Well, we're almost leaving the Laundromat and…You know, if this song could have been on while we were eating ice cream on top of the dryers, it would be more fitting," she pointed out, hoping that she wasn't blushing.

"Please. If this were a movie, I'd certainly do better than have 'Jokerman' playing on the radio." He moved towards her nearly empty dryer, helping her with her own pile.

"Well, what would you have playing on the radio?" Because she had the time, she chose to indulge him with another inane conversation. It wasn't frivolous, what they did. Not really. They kept note of what each other said and how they said it.

"The Stones, of course. 'Monkey Man' would probably do the trick."

"Really?" she was amused. "How about 'Sympathy for the Devil'?"

"At least I don't seem like the type who listens to weepy love songs. You probably like Don McLean. No. Wait. Joni Mitchell."

"What's wrong with Joni Mitchell?"

He began crooning the first line of 'Blue'. "_Blue songs are like tattoos_. I'm sure you pine for your lover a lot. You're the type, I guess."

"You don't know me. I don't have a boyfriend. And I do like that song."

"Interesting. A girl like you?" she looked at him, surprised. He tried to look away, but he couldn't. "You're just—You're really hot." He hoped that his cheeks weren't flushed and that she wouldn't notice. If she didn't, she didn't say that to him out loud. She was as concerned as he was with her blushing. Hoping to steer the conversation away from a direction he'd rather not take, he chose to change the subject. "And why would you even suggest 'Sympathy for the Devil' for me? I mean, I'm flattered. I _am_ a devil in bed—"

"You seem like the type."

"And what type am I, Lisa Cuddy?"

"The _asshole _type."

He couldn't help but laugh at her bluntness. He also couldn't help feeling the anxiety at the lack of clothes inside the dryer. It was really over. But he wanted a memento.

"Where's your popsicle stick? I'll throw it away for you."

"Okay," she simply replied. She gave him her popsicle stick inside wrapping paper. She didn't mind that he put them inside his pocket and didn't mind that he was lying to her. If he decided to build a Lisa Cuddy shrine, it was fine by her.

"You think you might want to do this again, maybe?"

"Maybe." She had on a cheeky little grin.

"Good. I'll see you around, Lisa Cuddy." He began dragging his hamper on the floor.

She smiled shyly at him and then double-checked if she had all of her clothes in her hamper. She realized that she was missing a pair of underpants.

"Hey! Give me back my…" she trailed off, embarrassed at the possible implications of what she'd say in public. It was easy to forget that other people were now inside the store aside from them.

He turned around, a satisfied grin on his face. "Give you back your what_, Lisa Cuddy_?" A black thong was also in his pockets, along with her popsicle stick.

She huffed in frustration. "_My. Underwear._"

"What kind?" he folded his arms and waited for an answer. He didn't get one. "Ask me what my name is and I'll give you back your th—"

"Fine." She gritted her teeth, lifted her hamper and placed it on what she hoped would be his foot. "What's your name, _asshole_?"

"Ask me nicely."

"No."

"Then you won't get your _panties_ back, _Lisa Cuddy_," he yelled. They could hear snickering from the other aisles.

"Tell me what your name is, give _them_ back, and I'll go on a date with you."

"Okay," he said brightly. "How about next Friday? _Une Femme est Une Femme_ would be showing at 6:30."

"I already watched that with my father, you just want to see Anna Karina half naked, and I'm surprised that you like Godard. Name? _Please?_"

"Let's both watch it again, I can just rent porn, and I just wanted to show myself as the wounded, intellectual type who watches foreign films. Greg House. Can I walk you to your…Dorm? Apartment? Brothel?" He really did like teasing her.

"No." she gave him a little pout. "And give me back my underwear."

"You're no fun. And I'm assuming you won't give me your number. How the hell would we go on a date?"

"You figure it out." Once again, Lisa Cuddy had her hamper in her arms. "Now I know your name, Greg House." With all the grace she could muster and carrying a load of clothes, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Near his right ear. Which was very sensitive.

Rendered helpless for a few seconds by a single act, he decided to let her go. If he kissed her, if he let this go on too quickly, she might disappear. It might end. He watched her walk towards the exit and decided to scream instead. This wasn't over until he said it was. "Hey, _Honey Buns_! Lisa Cuddy! Should I bring extra large condoms next week or what?"

"Buy them in your size, _Dear_. We don't want to get ahead of ourselves. And don't worry about your size, Greg House!" she yelled back.

"I'll bring your thong next week!"

He heard her laugh and the bell at the glass doors ring, as she finally got out of the Laundromat.

_The End_


End file.
